


summer comes a-rollin'

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean in Panties, M/M, Pre-Stanford, Sex in the Impala, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, the Impala, and a pair of cheap satin panties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer comes a-rollin'

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by the one and only sleepypercy, mistress of my terrible sentence fragments and marshaller of punctuation.
> 
> Title from 'Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You' by Led Zeppelin.

Sam sees the panties for, _God_ , maybe weeks, before he realises what they are. Little flashes, of pink between denim waistband and skin, every few days, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to click to what he's seeing. 

Dean stretches, and there it is. 

There's a bow, a tiny fold of satin ribbon stitched into a little ampersand, two loops and two tails, between the top of Dean's jeans and his belly button. There's that kind of edging that they call lace but all it is is a scalloped scrape along where elastic is sewn down shakily. 

Cheap shiny underwear, for a girl who likes a little bit of fanciness but has less than no budget. Pocket-money panties, the kind you wash yourself so your mom doesn't find them in your laundry basket and wonder about you. Sam's had girlfriends who wore that kinda thing, good girls, shy, sweet, studious, and Sam hasn't had _that_ much experience in his seventeen years, but he's made more than one girl come in panties just like that, pretty pink satin meant to be shown off. 

He's not a bad boy, he's not _Dean_ , but he's always the out-of-towner, tall and not that bad-looking, just enough muscle on his bones from Dad's stupid PT. He attracts the kinda girls who want to rebel, but only a little. 

That's Sam. The non-threatening short-term safely nerdy drifter boyfriend. Good for nice girls to experiment with.

It's a niche. It works for him. It's kind of the best compromise between the life he wants and the life he's got. Not a monk like his father, not a complete manwhore like his brother.

His brother, who under his gross stanky jeans, is wearing a shy girl's fuck-me panties. 

***

He's only a teenager but he knows how to survive. Sam knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. 

He wants out. He gets that by leaving. He's got a clip full of bills that'll get him to California, and he's got a letter in the bottom of his bag that's gonna take him the rest of the way. 

So yeah, Sam's planning to run. He keeps his head down, keeps his headphones on, keeps sparring, running, doing his PT, pounding small town pavements with single pickup rising treble solos ringing in his ears, hair all full of salt and the taste of his brother's sweat. Dean knocks him down and Sam, _God_ , Sam lets him, falls legs-open just to feel Dean on top of him, imagining those panties slick against his skin. Sam runs in his beat-up sneakers with the cicada-song of jangling E minor in his headphones, and pretends to sleep over long straight highways.

He can hear the Led Zeppelin underneath no matter how high he turns up the Walkman, just like he can feel the thrumming thing between them even though there might as well be a hundred miles between driver's side and shotgun. Just like he knows that, under the engine-oil-soaked jeans, his brother's wearing pink satin with a bow on the front.

Dean sings along with the gut-rough blues of the tapes in his stereo, croons the words like he means them. There's always a girl and he's always driving away, always ramblin' on. Dean doesn't like the idea of staying anywhere, but he's a soft touch, and he knows he makes girls sad when he bails on them. Every time they leave town, it makes him sing the loudest, hardest blues he knows. 

Sam wants Dean to fuck him in his satin panties with even half the slow hard emotion he puts into those songs, but he won't, so Sam turns up his Walkman and pretends he isn't gonna leave Dean just like Dean leaves his girls. 

***

Dean rips the headphones off Sam in a moment of brotherly shit-stirring that ends in a chase around their fleabag motel, in Sam tackling him, in Dean dropping to the dusty ground, Metallica tee riding up and jeans riding down, down, down over those sharp pretty hipbones. 

Sam sees. Pink. And he sucks in a breath too fast. 

Dean licks his lips. Sam lunges.

Dean's mouth is so warm under Sam's it tastes of sunshine. Dean rolls them over and over until Sam comes to rest under his brother's hard, hot body in the shade thrown by the Impala, his hands scrabbling in the waistband of Dean's pants. 

He's gotta see it. Gotta see them. 

The satin's nubbly with wear and age, and they're wet, God, they're soaked with Dean's sweat and how he's leaking, so hard already. Sam's pushing himself down Dean's body, needs to taste, needs to suck that clear wet stain off the head of Dean's cock, needs to -

'Boys?'

They're up and off each other so fast Sam gets a headrush and almost falls on his ass. Dean's shoving his cock back into his jeans but he still manages to grab Sam's elbow in time to stop him collapsing.

'Dean -' Sam breathes, head spinning, blood still all elsewhere, stumbling against Dean's body. 

Dean growls, the zipper catching, and Dad's footsteps echo round the corner before he can do up the button so he just yanks his shirt down. 'Later.'

It isn't that much later. John was only coming to tell them he was leaving again. He drives off in his truck and in thirty seconds Dean has Sam up against the Impala's dusty paintwork, scrabbling for the door handle til they fall backwards into the front seat and Sam's thighs fall open on autopilot. 

The dust has barely settled from their dad's departure but Dean already has Sam's pants around his ankles. 'Took you long enough,' he says in a low voice, breath grazing against Sam's collarbones. 'Been wearin' these special for you, Sammy. Know you like this kinda thing.'

'Dean -'

'You gonna give it up for me, Sammy? You gonna gimme somethin' before you go? Or were you just gonna ditch when summer came along? I found your letter,' he says, hands between the sweaty vee of Sam's thighs, prying at his ass to make space, and Sam would do the goddamn splits if he could but his jeans are as good as ankle cuffs like this. 

'Fuck me,' Sam gasps, not that Dean seems like he's going for anything else, lube out of the glovebox spilling over his shaking fingers and his head smacking the felt on the Impala's ceiling. 'Keep 'em on and fuck me.' He scrambles to kick the jeans off one ankle with his foot, scraping, trying to work his boots off. Dean growls and wrenches at his laces, throws the boots out of the car, leaving a smear of lube on Sam's ankle, and Sam manages to shimmy the jeans off in time to flatten himself against sweaty tan leather as Dean works a finger into his ass. 

It's a revelation. 

Sam pants, face turned into the seat back, and whines, and Dean nips at the curve of his neck. 'You like that?' he says, into Sam's skin. 'Fuck, you do, you like it so fucking much,' he growls, and Sam throws one skinny thigh up over the back of the seat to make as much space as the laws of physics will allow because he does, he likes it, he fucking _loves it_. 

Dean's all over him literally, like a blanket, knees up under Sam's ass and fingers _in_ Sam's ass. He rips off his t-shirt one handed and Sam'd swear his eyes cross all on their own, Dean's a goddamn wet dream in those panties and his amulet and nothing else, all his lean, hard-work muscle wet with sweat and flexing as he puts it to Sam, first two fingers bruise-deep already.

'C'mon, Dean,' Sam says, lurching up to wrap one arm around Dean's shoulders and pull him down, too hot in there but he wants it hotter, more, he wants to feel more than just that one point of contact or he'll fall, he knows he will. 'Put it in me, c'mon.'

Dean grits his teeth, leans down like Sam wants him to, but doesn't let up. 'Not yet. Not ready.'

'Don't care,' Sam breathes, forcing himself boneless. 'Fuck me.' He pulls on Dean again, fingernails digging into his broad, slick shoulders.

'Goddammit, Sam, you're _not ready_.'

'Just a little, c'mon, Dean, wanna feel you. Just, fuck, just the tip.' Sam shudders around the words, thinking it, imagining Dean's wet, leaking cock touching his hole, bumping there, smearing his skin, the pressure from Dean not being able to hold back, stretching Sam open like that, no fingers, no _safety_ , just them being stupid, reckless teenagers one more time. 

One first time, before Sam hits the road. 

Dean makes a noise like he's gut-shot, and Sam slides his hand down Dean's side till he can hook a finger in the too-tight satin of the panties, rub the pad of it against Dean's cock. 

'Doesn't even have to be in me, not really,' he whispers. 'Just wanna feel it, Dean, just wanna know -'

Dean pulls out of Sam's body and wrenches the pink fabric aside. Leans down, slow and smooth, and juts his hips up against Sam's ass. The tiny droplet of wetness at the slit of him is cold and slick when he bumps up against the hot shivery skin of Sam's taint. 

Then Dean shoves the head of his dick right up against Sam's hole, and Sam's lungs rattle empty as the universe stops for a microsecond. 

'Is this what you wanted to know?' Dean rasps, shuddering, holding Sam by the hips. 'You done now, Sammy? Had enough?' He starts to pull back. Sam locks his arms around Dean's shoulders. 'No?'

'I said _fuck me_.'

Dean laughs. 'I got you,' he says, and starts to push. Sam braces for an impact, even though the breadth of Dean wedged shallowly into him now feels like all he could possibly take - and then Dean pulls back. 

'No, Dean, no no no -'

'Turn over,' Dean breathes. He slaps Sam's ass, digs his fingernails in and pushes. 'Turn the fuck over, Sammy. I got you.'

Sam struggles to roll himself onto his belly under the bulk of Dean and over the sweaty vinyl of the seats, but he scrambles to do it. Dean doesn't help, pumping his hips low against Sam's body while he's trying to move, making him go all cross-eyed and light-headed with every brush of wet satin and slick cock against his skin. He makes it into place and Dean sinks into him. Sam tries to wriggle and can't. Caught. 

'You like that too, huh?' Dean murmurs in his ear, hot breath and sharp teeth. 'Like me putting you down and keeping you there?'

'Are you gonna - Dean, please, are you gonna -'

'Oh yeah, little brother. I'm gonna.'

Dean fucks him without pulling out, not even an inch, just grinds and grinds and grinds his dick into something inside Sam that makes his brain melt and sparkle. Sam sobs into the seat, flattens his thighs as wide as he can and scrabbles his fingers backwards, hooks them in Dean's panties. 

Dean has one hand in between Sam's shoulder blades and one tangled in his hair, like he's forcing him down and pulling him close all at once, and isn't that a fucking metaphor, but when Sam wrenches at the elastic sewn to that cheap shiny satin, twists it tight till he can feel it pinching the bloodflow off in his fingers, it doesn't matter. Dean grunts out something that might be a swear word or might be Sam's name or might be both, and his fingernails dig into Sam's spine, and there's a hot, insistent pulsing in Sam's ass, right up in that perfect spot, and suddenly his dick is jerking and spilling all over the seat. Dean keeps shoving himself deeper and deeper, sloppier and sloppier until Sam can feel it slicking down the inside of his thighs.

He lets it. He lays his head down and breathes the stink of them in this too-hot car. Dean shifts behind him, pulls out, and it's the reverse of a punch to the gut but just as achey. Sam always regrets sparring after he's started it, always regrets the things he takes too far.

Dean curves over him, kisses his neck, his jawline, bites his earlobe - and shoves his come-stained, sweaty panties in Sam's mouth when he gasps. 

'Keep 'em to remember me by,' he says softly, and then he's gone.

When Sam hauls himself out of the car, the sun's going down, the motel room is empty and cold, and there's a bus ticket, going to California, on the table.


End file.
